


In the twilight glow I see them

by SDJ2



Category: Simon & Garfunkel
Genre: 1950s, Best Friends, Canon Compliant, Childhood Friends, First Kiss, Fluff, M/M, RPF, Recreational Drug Use, Shotgunning, Teenage Dorks, Teenagers, Underage Drug Use, god I would love to go back in time and meet teenage Artie and Paul, i love those idiots so much istg, music rpf - Freeform, they're so cute
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-22
Updated: 2020-06-22
Packaged: 2021-03-04 05:53:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,331
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24828637
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SDJ2/pseuds/SDJ2
Summary: “Artie.”“Huh?”, Art blinked, suddenly remembering Paul was next to him. Right, they were in Paul’s car.“Paul”, Art said. “I forgot the colour of my eyes!!”Or: the joint venture of Paul and Art smoking pot for the first time.
Relationships: Art Garfunkel/Paul Simon
Comments: 12
Kudos: 16





	In the twilight glow I see them

**Author's Note:**

> Based on [this](https://simonandgarfunkel-incorrect.tumblr.com/post/621243994231521280/paul-and-art-definitely-shotgun-weed-back-when) and [this](https://simonandgarfunkel-incorrect.tumblr.com/post/621260089076187136/ok-but-what-if-and-all-im-saying-just-what-if) ask on Tumblr.
> 
> Title is the first line of Willy Nelson's "Blue Eyes Crying In The Rain"

“So wait,” Art said, while he circled the sleek, shiny red car in front of his driveway, “are you seriously telling me that this is what you spent the money on? A car?” His own savings were safely in the bank, to be used in a couple of years, for his college fund.

Paul scowled. “It’s my share of the money, isn’t it? I get to do with it what I want. It’s a late birthday gift to myself,” Paul said, crossing his arms defensively in front of his chest. “Besides, this isn’t just any car. Look how beautiful it is!”

“Yeah, but…” Art tried.

“No buts. Or yes, butts…Get yours inside. I’m taking you for a drive. See if I can change your mind.”

Art smiled. “I doubt it, but okay,” he acquiesced.

With a creak, the door opened, and Art slid inside. The red and grey striped upholstery of the car seats smelled like a combination of earthy leather and dust. He had to admit the gleaming steering wheel looked cool, as did the silver bodywork of the car that ran from the front of the car across the lustrous red metallic sides of the vehicle in a perfectly straight line.

Paul took his place beside him, behind the steering wheel. “Imagine next summer, Artie,” Paul said, looking up to the roof. “We can have the hood down and cruise the neighbourhood. Pick up girls.” He wiggled his eyebrows, his mind’s eye probably already seeing that particular vision.

“So you still have some time to practice your driving until then?” Art teased.

“Ugh, shut up. As if you’re the better driver,” Paul replied.

It being the middle of winter, the hood of the car was kept firmly closed now. Paul turned the key, backed the car out of its parking spot between Art’s parents’ car and the neighbours’, and hit the road. He hadn’t even driven a mile before the dark, grey clouds released their anger: raindrops splattered on the windscreen. The air was chilly but just not cold enough for it to snow. Paul set the windscreen wipers to work and hummed under his breath, his mood most definitely lifted by the amazing car he was currently navigating through the park situated at the end of Art’s street.

Art would never admit it out loud, but he enjoyed the drive. He had obtained his license a couple of weeks earlier, but hadn’t had much opportunity to take his parents’ car out for a spin. With Paul now owning this car, and the promise of his friend picking him up before school so they could drive to class together, Art was sure they would gain even more popularity in Forrest Hills High. They’d become neighbourhood heroes. Trying to wrap his head around that, he absentmindedly tapped his fingers on his legs on the rhythm of the song Paul was humming and, before long, joined in, their voices filling the interior of the wheels with a blend of baritone and tenor, whisked together in harmonious thirds.

“We certainly don’t sound too shabby together,” Paul said, and Art wasn’t sure if he meant it as a rhetorical question or as a statement. He acknowledged what Paul said with a non-committal ‘hmmm’, while turning his head towards his friend, who was concentrating on the road in front of him. “Which reminds me,” Paul continued, looking over at him for one second before presenting his face in profile to Art once again, “there’s something else I got my hands on that I want us to try together.”

For the second time in less than half an hour, he wiggled his eyebrows suggestively. Art’s eyebrow also shot up. “Oh?”, he enquired. “Later,” Paul said, sounding like this was the end of this strand of the conversation and Art shouldn’t pry. He didn’t. The car’s motor revving and the sound of the rain softly tapping on the roof and the windshield were rather calming. He did start to imagine the feeling of the breeze blowing through his hair and the sun shining down on them in the summertime, with the hood down, both of them wearing shades and their elbows leaning through the windows of the car. Maybe Paul buying the car, instead of saving up the royalties from their record, was not such a bad idea after all. Art wondered if Paul would let him drive, sometimes.

“You _are_ enjoying this, aren’t you?” Paul asked, glancing at Art momentarily and noticing Art’s dreamy stare through the window. “Told you I’d change your mind.”

“Shut up…” Art warned, but he knew he’d been caught red-handed and grinned.

“Tell me you don’t absolutely agree that this is the coolest car you’ve ever seen in your whole life,” Paul said, tapping his fingers on the steering wheel to emphasize.

“I most definitely won’t. This is the worst car ever, I hate it,” Art replied, without missing a beat. But he couldn’t keep the teasing note out of his voice, and Paul picked up on it.

“You don’t hate it,” Paul sighed.

“I hate _you._ ”

“No, you don’t either.”

“No, I don’t”, Art said. Then he continued with “I can’t hate you, because I need you as my chauffeur, driving me to school every morning from now on.”

Paul scowled again and took one hand off the steering wheel, hitting Art in the ribs. Art tried to squirm to the right as much as possible in an attempt to escape Paul’s wrath. He laughed and asked “Where are we going today, by the way?”

Paul nodded. “Yeah, I think the drive’s served its purpose, actually. Not sure you deserve such a fancy ride if you don’t appreciate it.” The last sentence was said in jest. “Let’s turn back. It’s gotten dark anyway. And I’ve got that other thing to show you.”

“Starting to get curious now, for real.”

“All in good time, Artie. All in good time.”

Fifteen minutes later, darkness now completely fallen, Paul parked the car under a tree in his street, but not directly across the street from his own house. He killed the engine and turned off the headlights. There was only a bit of light coming from a lamppost a few yards behind them and a few stray Christmas lights in the windows of some of the houses.

Art sat up upright in the seat and inched closer when Paul reached in his pocket and showed him the elusive object.

“What?” he said, his voice a mix of fascination and a bit of nervousness. “Where did you get it?”

Paul lifted his eyes and looked up at him from under his eyelashes. “Can’t reveal my sources, Artie,” he smirked. “But I only got the one. And since it’s our first, I want us to share it. I mean,” Paul hesitated, “it _is_ your first too, right?”

“Yeah,” Art whispered, and then continued in a normal voice, after clearing his throat. “When would I have had one?” he asked. “I spend all my time with you.”

“Right,” Paul replied. “I wasn’t sure. But anyway, it just seemed more fun to do it together rather than me smoking it on my own. You in?”

Art picked up the joint from Paul’s open palm, and turned it between his fingers. He put it up to his face and smelled it, wrinkling his nose. His heartrate sped up, and he had to admit he was a bit intimidated by the prospect. On the other hand, he had heard some classmates talk about it, and he read some stuff in a magazine about the drug. He had wanted to try it for himself, just to see what all the fuss was about, but having Paul with him did make him feel better. 

“I’m in,” he said, and handed the joint back to Paul.

Paul turned the car key a quarter turn, causing the dashboard light to light up and color in his face. He pressed the lighter button situated under the fuel gauge. It took half a minute. Art shifted in his seat in barely contained anticipation.

When Paul touched the tip of the spliff to the red-hot glowing lighter surface, Art let out a deep breath.

“Okay?” Paul asked, in apparent concern for Art’s well-being, but Art was sure he heard a hint of nerves and jitters in Paul’s voice as well. Art nodded.

Paul took the first drag, inhaled and blew out the smoke and quickly passed the joint to Art, who did the same. The taste and smell of the weed and the smoke filling his lungs was rather intense and burned in his throat. It wasn’t unlike smoking a regular cigarette, but still slightly different.

Paul expectantly turned his gaze to Art. “Do you feel anything?” he inquired.

“Do you think it’d be this quick?” Art was trying to think if anything felt different than a minute ago. His heart was already racing even before the first puff of smoke reached his lungs, so that didn’t count.

“No idea.” Paul shrugged. He took the joint again from between Art’s fingers, and inhaled a second time, handing it back to Art. Art had to squint to see Paul’s features in the faint lamp light.

“Do you think we did it wrong?” Paul wondered. “I don’t feel any different.”

“Should we open a window? It’s getting hot in here,” Art replied. The car’s windows were starting to fog up.

“No, stupid, we don’t want people to know we’re smoking pot in here. And what do you mean, hot? The heating’s not on.”

A drop of sweat prickled on Art’s forehead. He was afraid that Paul would think he was crying. It was suddenly imperative that he informed Paul of the contrary. “I’m not crying,” he stated, matter-of-factly.

Paul’s head whipped around. “But no one stole our lunch money!” Paul seemed rather indignant about the fact that someone had made Art cry.

Art was touched. He smiled down at Paul. “Would you protect me?” Paul may have been smaller than him, but he was also fierce, and he would stand up to someone trying to hurt his friends. Art put the joint to his lips and inhaled.

“Protect you from what?” Paul said, and leaned back in the seat. He immediately sat back upright and announced he was going to turn on the radio. “Do you think we’ll hear our record?” He giggled. “That would be cool right? Getting stoned to our own song?”

“Our Song?”

“No, the other one. What’s it called again?”

At that, both of them burst out laughing. Art wondered why _he_ hadn’t bought a cool car with his earnings. Maybe he’d have to talk to his parents about it in the coming days, see if he could convince them of letting him have his own car. But then again, how could his car be cooler than Paul’s? Should he get the exact same car?

“Artie.”

“Huh?” Art blinked, suddenly remembering Paul was next to him. Right, they were in Paul’s car. 

“Paul,” Art said. “I forgot the colour of my eyes!!” Art widened his eyes, and urgently implored Paul to tell him what colour they were. A slight panic set in.

“Art, I can’t see a thing in the dark. I’ll tell you tomorrow when it’s light out. Hand me that joint again.”

Art did as he was told. Then he remembered something that he had read in a magazine. The frenzy over his missing eye colour was replaced by a sudden idea.

“Do you know what shotgunning is?” he asked, his mind suddenly very aware of how every syllable sounded. “Did I say it right? Shot-gun?”

Paul sucked another lungful of smoke. “You’re riding it.”

“Huh?” Art spoke again, ineloquently. His tongue felt a little thick. “What?” He started giggling, though he didn’t quite know why it was so funny. Then he remembered. “No, not me riding shotgun _in the car,_ ” he corrected, “but shotgunning weed.”

Paul evidently did not know. Art grew more excited. With rather wide hand gestures, he started to explain.

“It’s when one person blows the smoke through the joint and the other person sucks it in.” Paul stared at him. “I wanna try it,” Art continued.

Paul, turning in the direction of his friend, blew lightly on the joint. Some of the ashes flew around and landed on the red upholstery between them.

“Noooo,” Art yelled, waving his arms around busily. “The other way around.”

Paul looked from the rolled paper between his fingers to Art, a frown lining his face. Then he smiled. “Oh, you want to blow and I have to suck the smoke in, right. But how do I avoid swallowing the ashes?”

Art didn’t know whether to laugh or cry at this. He decided on the former. “No, I meant you have turn the joint around.” He kept on giggling until he saw Paul’s pouty face. Out of commiseration with his friend, he also sucked his lower lip between his teeth.

Paul looked like he was contemplating a particularly hard math problem. That, or he was constipated. Art really had to do his best not to start laughing again, but he managed to keep his sniggering in check.

“What, have the burning end in my mouth?” Paul asked incredulously. “No fucking way,” he said, and held the joint out to Art. “You do it then, if you want to try this so badly.”

Art reached out his hand, but left it hovering in mid-air. “I…there’s another way,” he said.

Paul’s head cocked to the side. “What’s that?”

“One person inhales a mouthful of smoke, blows it out, the other person catches it and sucks it in.” Art leaned in closer to Paul’s face. “You blow, I suck,” he whispered importantly, as if he just told Paul a secret he’d promised to take to his grave.

Paul burst out cackling and pushed his index finger to Art’s chest for emphasis. “Yeah, you _do_ suck.”

“Hey, watch it,” Art said, now pouting for real.

“Artie,” Paul said, turning serious again. “Wouldn’t that be…gay?”

“What? No, why would it? It’s not like I’m going to be kissing you,” Art said. “Eww. Our lips don’t touch. Also, I’ve seen the inside of your mouth from up close. This is not even on the same level.”

Paul took a second to think about what Art had said. “Okay,” he agreed.

Art readied himself to surge forward once Paul would have inhaled the smoke. He saw the tip of the joint lit up when Paul took a drag, then closed his mouth firmly and let the smoke swirl between his cheeks. “Right,” Art said, and leaned forward, his mouth about two inches removed from Paul’s. “Let it out.”

Paul opened his lips in the shape of a small o, and blew the air out of his mouth softly. Art, meanwhile, tried to keep his eyes on Paul’s lips but found that he was too close to see anything without looking cross-eyed, so he directed his gaze upward and found Paul’s eyes staring back at him, which was slightly unsettling. He sucked in the air and smoke between them, let it sink silently down into his lungs and breathed out, keeping Paul’s gaze locked with his for a short while longer before leaning back into the seat. He blinked slowly and the corners of his mouth curled upward of their own accord. “Well?” he questioned.

“That was pretty cool,” Paul admitted. “Again. But get a bit closer. You don’t want to let too much of the smoke escape. The joint’s almost finished.”

“Okay,” Art agreed.

Paul repeated his earlier movements. Art’s head was so close to Paul’s now, he had to angle his face or they’d bump noses, and it was no use trying to see anything without being able to use his depth view, so he closed his eyes. When he felt Paul’s warm breath stir on his upper lip, he opened his mouth slightly and sucked in the smoke once more.

He wasn’t sure if it was a conscious decision on his part, or an invisible force pushing him forward, but Art found himself with his lips pressed to Paul’s, exhaling through his nostrils. He was slightly aware of the radio playing in the car, but the sound of the tiny little squeak Paul made, tight-lipped, as Art shifted a few inches closer on the front seat, was louder. Paul had grown very still but also didn’t make any attempt to pull away. And Art, his head feeling fuzzy like it was filled with freshly shaven lamb’s wool, didn’t want to be the first to break this, whatever it was, either.

It came as a surprise to himself when he felt his hand shoot forward, up to Paul's face, cradling the back of Paul's head gently, feeling Paul's hair tickle the soft flesh between his thumb and his index finger. He was infinitely aware of the breath Paul took in that moment, opening his mouth a fraction of an inch in order to let oxygen in, but it was enough for Art to press closer, insisting on some sort of entry. He was not thinking about what exactly it was that he was doing or what purpose it served; he only registered somewhere in the back of his mind the incredible joy he felt when Paul regained his ability to move and no longer remained stock-still under his touch. His eyes still closed - it was too much of an effort to open them - he sensed rather than saw Paul lose any remaining reserves.

Paul was the first to move his mouth in such a way that the original tight-lipped stack of lip upon lip unmistakably changed into an actual kiss. Art wished he could capture the softness of Paul's bottom lip to keep in his room, like a firefly caught in a jar, taken out at night to admire, right before bed. He moved his thumb slightly, so that it rested in front of Paul's ear, his other fingers still applying slight pressure on the back of Paul’s head. Paul reacted by sucking on Art's upper lip, and Art took this as a cue to let his tongue dart in and out. Quickly, at first, and guarded, like a stray cat setting one paw into a house to check if it's safe to steal any food, but more boldly when that house owner released an encouraging sound that brought goosebumps to the skin on Art's forearms.

Art had kissed a few girls, and they had giggled when he had tried to use tongue, but none of them had ever allowed him to go as far as Paul did, right now. If he hadn't been sitting down, he was sure his knees would have buckled. Paul raised one of his hands and touched it to Art's sweater at the height of his collarbone, where it rested for a fleeting moment before it crept up his neck. Paul's fingers followed the line of Art's cheekbone to his temple, and eventually came to a stop in Art's hair, curling around strands of hair, re-imagining the longer curls Art lost at the hairdresser's before their stunt on television.

Art shifted closer to Paul, sneaking his other hand around his friend's back and pulling Paul closer to him. Paul obliged and melted into his chest. Paul's tongue licked into his mouth, and the sensation that should have been strange and intrusive, only felt like fate intended this for them, like it was always supposed to happen like this. Art didn't know if it was the drug and his consequent heightened sensitivity at work here, or if kissing someone was always so tender and unequivocally right.

It was a pity that he had to come up for air eventually. The air around them was still humid and pungent with the odour of weed, but somehow Art’s brain registered it must be slightly more oxygenated than the inside of Paul's mouth. Had he been able to make use all of his usual cognitive abilities, he would have calculated the precise volume of fresh air inside the car, but under these circumstances, he settled on ‘car big, Paul small’, or something like that.

After a final sweep of his tongue discerning exactly where Paul hits his T’s on his palate, he reluctantly tore his mouth away from Paul’s lips, who grunted at the loss of contact. Art’s hand slid to Paul’s shoulder, and he sat back for a second, willing his heart rate to come down, and narrowing his eyes trying to make out Paul across from him open his eyes languidly, as if it cost Paul the biggest effort to even lift his head. Paul disentangled his hand from Art’s hair as well. Art tracked it with his gaze, and saw it coming to a rest on the steering wheel. The joint that Paul was still holding in his other hand was as good as finished, and had been extinguished.

He noticed Paul open and close his mouth a few times, but no sound came out. Art made a mental note that apparently kissing was a foolproof way of shutting Paul Simon up. That usually didn’t happen, so he catalogued it in his mind for possible future use. Except when Paul eventually did speak , the words made him question whether there would be another opportunity.

“I thought you said this didn’t involve kissing?”

It sounded accusatory. It _was_ , wasn’t it? Had Paul hated it? Art felt his earlier euphoria dissipate. He recoiled slightly, removing his hand from Paul’s shoulder as if it got burned.

“I…I wasn’t planning on it. It was the weed. The weed made me do it.” He hated how defensive he sounded. “You could’ve stopped it,” he accused. He chewed on his lip. 

“Artie, I’m so hungry,” Paul said, disregarding everything Art had said, and gripping Art’s wrist, changing the subject like a snap of his fingers. Art started to hope that maybe he had imagined any irritated tone in Paul’s voice, and shivered from the return of Paul’s warm touch. “I can feel your heartbeat,” Paul stated. This conversation made no sense at all, jumping from one thought to another, but Art did wonder if Paul could also feel the flutter of his heart and hear the hitch in his breath.

“You’re hungry?” Art reiterated. When he thought about it, Art also felt he could eat. He’d have to either raid the fridge in the kitchen or eat some of the candy stashed away in his bedside table. “I could eat,” he declared.

Paul released Art’s hand and turned. “I’ll drop you off,” he said, and it took Art three heartbeats to ponder the ridiculousness of that statement.

“Are you nuts, you’re not driving in this state. You’ll kill yourself, and me in the process. I’ll walk,” Art offered.

Paul seemed to accept that as a valid answer. “Awwww, do you care about me, Garfunkel?” he asked, releasing the key he was already half intent on turning.

“I care about my own life, thank you very much,” Art said. “But, granted, I don’t want you to die.”

Art figured Paul would have his reply ready, but Paul got out of the car instead. Art followed suit.

They said their goodbyes right in front of Paul’s house. Paul, who had the prospect of having shelter in a minute, didn’t bother with closing his jacket, but Art did button up his coat and put up the hood. The rain was still drizzling around them.

Art had set three steps in what he believed was the direction of his house, when he heard Paul call after him. “Artie!” Was he going in the wrong direction after all, then?

He swiveled around on the spot, noticing that Paul had already moved to the middle of the steps leading to the front door, and was holding the railing lightly. Art raised his head and a raindrop fell on his eyelash, causing him to blink rapidly, startled. “Yeah?”

“I don’t want you to die either,” Paul spoke, and it sounded a lot heavier than Paul probably intended it. “I won’t,” Art assured him.

“Thanks for tonight,” Paul went on. “I want to do it again.” He pushed a pebble off the steps with the point of his shoe.

“Smoking a joint?” Art wondered, a little breathlessly.

“That, too,” Paul said and smiled bashfully before turning around and putting his key in the front door’s lock with unprecedented precision.

Art reckoned his own smile would never leave his face.

This time he made it a whole five steps before he heard scurrying and the sounds of crushing dried leaves behind him and he turned around once more.

Paul ran into him so hard the wind was knocked out of him and a small “oomph” left his mouth. Paul curled his arms around Art’s waist forcefully and murmured into the fabric of his coat, just below his throat.

Art hugged Paul back just as fiercely.

“They’re blue.”

Art had no idea what Paul was saying, but he rubbed soothing circles into Paul’s back with his hands. 

“What’s blue?” he asked.

“Your eyes.”

“Oh. So you could see in the dark in the car after all?”

“No.” Paul looked up at him and relaxed the muscles in his arms, weakening the force of the embrace slightly. His hair glistened from the raindrops that had descended down on it. “I remember. I noticed. Before.”

Before Art could open his mouth to try and formulate some kind of a reply that would not be considered complete gibberish, Paul scrambled out of his arms and hurried back to his front porch, disappearing behind the door in a flurry of bright, shining eyes and “see you tomorrow, Artie!”

Art skipped all the way home, happy in the knowledge that he could recall the exact shade of Paul’s eyes, too.

**Author's Note:**

> I may revisit this story some time in the future, trying to come up with a second chapter, detailing 'the morning after' when they're not intoxicated, haha.


End file.
